I called up Kiara, the Australian teaching assistant. She had come to the same conclusion. "Do you want to go for a walk?" I said. At 12:30 we met up at the top of Rue Jerzuel, the steep, windy, and very picturesque street that leads down from Dinan's high ramparts to the port below, and then headed north along the river. The road soon turned into a park-like path hugging the banks. Every few minutes, signs would appear pointing towards villages and sights west of the river, a few of which we explored before returning to our path. By 2:30 we reached the La Vicomté-sur-Rance, a lovely port town with a damn keeping the southern part of the river full of water while the northern side empties out at low tide.
It was a strange sight. The muddy contours of the river bottom were exposed to view, filling the air with the smell of wet clay. By the banks, fishing nets hung high and dry, waiting for the water and fish to return. We crossed the bridge over the damn and stopped for hot chocolate in a café next to the port. Warm and rested, we figured we should start heading back; the cold air was great for walking, but with such thick clouds nighttime was sure to come early.
We were not, however, in any hurry. Feeling adventurous, we naively decided to find a different route back. There was no quiet path on the eastern side of the river because of high rocky cliffs, but a map in town showed a couple of main roads heading south. We inevitably got lost. After wandering past little communities with amusing names (La Ville des Petits-pois, or "pea town") and reading street signs with no mention of Dinan, we decided it was time to either ask for directions or retrace our steps. As it was Sunday, not many people were out and about, but I spied and old man coming out of his house with a little white dog in one arm. He was understandably surprised to hear that we had come so far by foot, but explained that he was headed to the forest to feed his cat and would be happy to drop us off on the main road to Dinan afterwards. He seemed harmless, so we hopped into his car. It turns out he is a retired school-teacher. He bought a piece of land in the Forêt de Coëtquen and built a cottage for himself as a getaway from the hustle and bustle of his village. His cat was a big old thing who is apparently too independent to live in the city, but unhealthy enough that Monsieur felt obliged to come and feed him every day. Monsieur was clearly worried for the old cat's health. He set out at least a dozen bowls full of warm milk, several different kinds of wet food, dry food, water, medecine, etc. and waited around until he was satisfied that the cat had sufficiently eaten. The whole process took about an hour.
When the cat was fed we hopped back into the car, eager to be on our way. It was getting late and the weather felt colder now that we had stopped walking. Monsieur turned the key in the transmission. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. He had accidentally left the heat on for the little white dog in the front seat, thus draining the battery. Monsieur was embarrassed and at a loss for what to do, but we cheerfully offered to get out and push, which we did, up and down the driveway without success. Just when Kiara and I thought we had better start walking, Monsieur said, "You know what, I've got another battery we can try." Battery #2 was bigger than the first. We barely managed to jam it in there and reattach the cables, but when he turned the key in the transmission the car rumbled to life.
It was 5pm by the time he dropped us off at the cross-roads he had mentioned. It was a busy road without sidewalks that lead into Lanvallay, the city immediately across the river from Dinan. It took us at least 2 more hours to walk back to Dinan. We were tired and hungry, and the twinkling lights of our city seemed so far. Night had fallen by the time I stumbled up the steps to my apartment. There was dinner to make and classes to prepare for. To my delight, the heat had been turned on in the apartment complex. I never slept so well.
